This is the third chapter of 'Meeting My Succubus' so it would be a good idea to read the first two parts before this if you have not already done so. I should point out that the word 'neurovore' is not my invention but was coined by the late Sir Terry Pratchett and I have borrowed it. He used it to describe someone who lives on their nerves, while I use it to describe someone who feeds off other people's powerful emotions. I felt the need to include a fair bit of 'world-building' here, but if you are patient there will also be some sex.
There is an episode in this chapter that involves interracial kink between Chinese women and white 'European' men. I realise this might be offensive to some, but in my defence it was inspired by an illuminating conversation with a female friend who is of Chinese ancestry, so I know that it does exist as a phenomenon, at least for some.
Please remember that the opinions of the characters are not necessarily the same as mine. You might want to skip this tale if you have strong traditional religious views -- but then probably in that case you might be wiser to avoid Literotica altogether!
It goes without saying that all the characters engaged in sexual activities are over eighteen (in one case by several centuries), this is of course a work of fiction, and the copyright is reserved by me, N. S. Carter, and I forbid its use, in whole or in part, without my explicit permission.
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It turned out that the residence of The Lady was on Cromwell Road, facing the Natural History Museum. I found it ironic that an advisor/therapist to those of a demonic persuasion was sited opposite a building dedicated to scientific enquiry. Maybe in future they would have a wing there specifically for infernal beings, with my stuffed body on display in a glass case. OK, so I was in a bit of a peculiar and fragile state of mind that morning, and you could hardly blame me given my experiences since meeting my succubus, Clara.
The house was one of a terrace of imposing four-story houses, appearing to date from Georgian times, with an entrance flanked by columns. There was a small brass plate next to the door which had an inscription in such small letters that even from a foot away I had to squint, reading 'Advisor on the Obscure'. In slightly larger letters beneath was written 'Unwelcome Visitors will be Devoured by Demons'. I could only hope that we were in the 'welcome visitors' category.
Sometimes, when what is strange is an absence, it takes a while to pinpoint the issue. In this case it came to me quite quickly since it was a practical matter. There was no doorbell. Nor was there any kind of knocker.
I turned to consult Clara. She had been uncharacteristically quiet for the last part of our journey, even holding my hand, clearly nervous. However, before I could speak, the door opened, and there was a tall distinguished man who, judging from his colour and the dastar he wore, was a Sikh. For a moment he simply stood there, scanning us, and in this cases 'scanning' seems the most appropriate word since it felt like passing through one of those gates at airport security. His face gave two contradictory impressions, with a blankness that suggested almost that there was 'nobody home', and at the same time evoking a sense of focussed attention.
We must have passed his scrutiny since without any of us speaking a word he moved gracefully aside and gestured for us to enter.
I wished I had the time to look at the paintings covering the walls of the entrance hall. They appeared to be originals, and many of them were in a style suggesting that they were centuries old. All were portraits, and while there was nothing obviously non-human in their faces, I had the strong feeling that this was the case for many of them.
Before I could take a closer look, 'Miss Marple' came out to greet us. I say 'Miss Marple' because she bore an uncanny resemblance to the character in the popular TV series. She was a diminutive older woman who had a twinkle in her eye suggesting mischievous intelligence.
She addressed Clara, though she called her by a different name.
"So, Melantha, what kind of trouble have you got yourself into this time?"
Though the words sounded critical, the tone suggested resigned affection and it was evident she did not expect an answer, at least not yet. She turned to the gentleman who had let us in.
"Thank you, Harpreet Singh. That will be all."
Without a word he turned and left, leaving me wondering whether he was capable of speech.
The Lady led us into a little sitting room which had a comfortable set of a sofa and armchairs arranged around a coffee table, all looking to date from Victorian times. The room had a large window looking out onto a small walled garden, an arrangement I had trouble reconciling with what I knew of the geography of the area.
There were a number of ornaments of various kinds scattered around, but at first glance nothing out of the ordinary. At second glance there were some oddities, such as the carriage clock on which the second hand alternated between going clockwise and then anticlockwise, as well as a blank white canvas in a room where modern art of that kind seemed completely out of place and I wondered whether it would be blank to all eyes.
We were waved over to the sofa while she sat in one of the armchairs. Without asking, she poured coffee for all three of us from a tall pot into mugs. These were charmingly out of place and at the same time kind of quaintly appropriate since they all had Harry Potter themes.
Without preamble she asked Clara to explain what was going on, and so she began, addressing her as 'My Lady', a little haltingly at first but then gathering confidence. Throughout she clutched my hand.
It took some time and I managed to get through two cups of the delicious coffee during the narration. I wondered idly whether the coffee was really something special or it was only a consequence of my newly enhanced senses. The Lady listened intently, bringing to mind what someone once said about how Lenin 'could exhaust you by listening'.
Towards the end Clara pulled me up short when she explained with a particularly mournful tone, giving voice to it for the first time, that she thought she had fallen in love with me. On the one hand I felt a pulse of sheer joy, and at the same time I could not help but notice that her tone suggested some combination of sharing a terminal diagnosis and confessing to a shameful addiction. A little part of me was saying 'is the idea of being in love with me that awful?', but then I grasped that it was about something different. Clara, or rather in this case Melantha, had been around a long time, and she was only now experiencing falling in love.
Once Clara had finished, there was a moment of silence and then 'The Lady' shocked both of us by bursting out in raucous laughter, which could not be described as ladylike in the least. It took her some time to recover, and then she said,
"Oh dear, I haven't laughed so much since I heard about Napoleon's mishap with a penis-growing potion. He thought the quantities were in the metric system! Still, I suppose it ended up motivating him to conquer most of Europe to compensate."
Then she looked a bit more serious and addressed Clara.
"Melantha, my dear, I thought you would have learned your lesson after that business with the necromancer, and now ... let's check that I have it right?"
Poor Clara looked mortified and sat with her eyes downcast, clutching my hand even harder. I made a mental note to ask her about 'that business with the necromancer' at an appropriate moment.
"So, you reveal to a mortal that you are a succubus?"
Clara nodded, seeming to shrink into herself a little.
"Then you allow a mortal with no knowledge of our world to save your life and so become your master?"
Again, another nod.
"And as if that is not enough you let him feed on your essence?"
Nod.
"Oh, and just to make things even more of a mess, you fall in love, which by the way is not even supposed to be possible for a succubus?"
This time there was not even a nod.
The Lady sat absolutely still for quite some time, clearly thinking.
Then she gave a little chuckle and spoke,
"I guess someone must be looking after you. If you had only made one of those mistakes then you would have been in a world of trouble, but strangely the combination might give you both a bit of protection."
She took a sip of her coffee, which I imagined must have been cold by now, and continued.
"If you had only been guilty of telling a mortal about yourself, the Lords of Hell would have extinguished you. But because you became bound to a master, they are not allowed to do that while he lives. Given how they think, they might have solved that problem by ending him. However, they cannot do that now since he is also of a partly demonic nature, and so they cannot kill him unless he breaks our laws."
She clapped her hands and laughed again.
"They are going to be so pissed-off if they do find out. I love it." Hearing her use a term like 'pissed-off' was a little like imagining the Queen saying 'fuck'.
At this point too many things had been mentioned that I did not understand, and I had to ask, even though I would struggle to frame the question.
